Cleaned 15 By timos111@hotmail.com Apart from bathroom frolics like these, Janelle found that Brad's presence was definitely cramping her style. It was difficult to give vent to her full creativity when having to be mindful of things like precise locations and noise levels. Sure she had an exhibitionistic streak in her, but mainly around strangers. Situations she could walk away from, involving people she'd never have to see again. Blood relations, be they his or hers, are too close for comfort. You can't divorce your relatives. Putting dents in Doug's pride was central to her idea of fun, but her gut instincts told her to stop short of anything that might break him completely. For one thing, she was quite fond of the guy. For another, and despite the exploration of his limits being a part of the fun, humiliating him in front of family or close friends was simply not in her nature and sure to be ultimately counter-productive. It was driving her crazy. She needed something. Needed more than his oral servitude, good though it was. This deprivation was lowering her defences. Affecting her judgement. And making her feel inclined to follow up on a lead she'd otherwise have probably just ignored. Coffee, and a chat, with Christine. Janelle didn't have the number though, and didn't want to ask Doug for it. So she rang the gallery. They probably shouldn't have given out that kind of information but, after making sounds vaguely like those of an arty client, Janelle soon had it scribbled down. A mobile number, too - even better. Didn't want to run any risk of Julie coming on the line. "Hello?" "Janelle." "Oh! Hiiiii!" A positive response, if a little theatrical. "You busy?" "At a loose end. Jane's at work. And me, well, I don't work, as you know." Janelle didn't know, but did now. "I'd like to see what you do in that studio of yours, if you don't mind talking art with a greenhorn." "Come right on over." She did. Scribbled down the address, showered, applied some light makeup, changed to a stretchy purple boob-tube top with tight jeans and a white blouse knotted at the front to show lots of taut brown tummy. Called in sick at work. Then went out and hailed a cab. It pulled up at a condo at a Harbour Drive address about fifteen minute's from Downtown. Past the doorman and into the elevator, she took a moment to reflect upon why she'd come. What was it that drew her here? She definitely wanted to know more about art. How you'd do it, why you'd do it. Whether she might have what it took. Doug had been in the midst of throwing down a challenge to her, moments before Christine had accosted them at the gallery. But telling herself it was nothing more than that would be a lie. Her sense of adventure was at play here too. A sense that something may happen - a situation she might be able to control, to manipulate, if she played her cards right. The kind of hunch she had when first she ever strode into Doug's office ... Christine threw the door open and ushered Janelle inside, planting a swift kiss on her cheek as she passed. "So glad you could come!" She was dressed casual. As casual as someone of her circle would ever allow herself to be. Slacks and a smock-top with a few daubs of clay on it, but she was also made-up and her dark hair was nicely styled. They were in some kind of loft apartment, with very high ceiling and skylights. Very spacious, airy and sunny, with great views of the sparkling harbour. Furnishings followed a minimalist approach. Meaning there wasn't very much of it, and a lot of empty floor space. Did she offer dancing lessons as well, perhaps? Then it dawned on her - there was a lot of stuff hanging on walls, perched on pedestals, tucked in little alcoves. Paintings, oils mainly, sculpture, woven works. Furniture was out so knick-knacks could be in. "The studio's through here." Christine led her through an archway that revealed an equivalent floorspace beyond. Not livable, this area was a jumble of materials, trestle tables, rolls of paper and cardboard, bulging damp sacks of clay, chunks of wood, tools, chisels, trinkets, wood shavings, working models, sketches and photos. And centrally, on a small bench by itself, what looked like some kind of half-finished figure covered up in wrappings of damp linen. For Janelle this was all new, and fascinating. She moved to a bench and glanced down at some working sketches of figures in various poses. "I try to map out what I want on paper first, and imagine it from all angles. Then try to get it into 3-D with the clay or wood." "So you don't just start right out with attacking a big lump of something solid, then?" "It's about ten parts of thinking to one part of doing. If I just attacked something, I'd probably end up having to start it over." "Where do you get your ideas from?' "Shenectady." Janelle's mystified look had Christine explaining apologetically. "Sorry, I was just teasing. That's a standard writer's response to that question." "It's me who should be sorry, it was a dumb thing to ask." "There are no dumb questions. I'm so glad you're interested enough to come on over." "I want to find out what's involved. What you actually DO to create this stuff." Christine began removing the damp cloth off the clay figure on the table. "I compose with sketches. And photo's too sometimes, though often it seems I can snap off rolls and rolls of film and still not capture quite the angle I was wanting. Best is a 3-D model. Something I can turn around. Something I can touch ..." The figure was female, naturally. Even though only half-finished, it already managed to convey a narcissistic self-absorption. It was posed with one hand between it's legs. The chest area had only been roughed out crudely so far. "Clay gives more room for error. As long as it stays wet, I can go back and change things. With wood you can only take more off - can't put it back on. But clay has to be fired, which is a pain in the neck." "When you see these things after they're finished" Janelle commented, "it's hard to imagine all of this work going into them. It's like they got that way by magic!" "It's as much perspiration as inspiration. Wait 'til you see some of the classic Greek marbles! Three thousand years ago they already had it all figured out." "What's your idea behind this one?" "I want to portray an awakening. Self-discovery. A young woman embracing femmocentric values." Hmmm ... very well, then. Janelle rummaged amongst a sheaf of sketches and found a bunch of photo's - all of the same nude woman. It wasn't Julie either, this person had tits. Quite motherly. "Who's this?" "Oh, someone I asked to model for me. I still haven't figured out quite what I'm going to do with this one in the boobs department." So saying, she swept her hand toward the unfinished clay figure. "Can't you just go out and buy a copy of Penthouse?" "That's exactly the type of imagery I DON'T want to project. Besides, I have to take the photo's myself if I'm to get the angles I want." "Isn't Julie willing to model for you?" Christine gave a derisive snort. "Only too willing, but I want boobs! Not flea-bites!" There was a pause here in the conversation, during which Janelle noticed Christine's eyes flicker momentarily downward, then up again to meet the younger black girl's gaze. Was she ...? Nooo! Too obvious. Too cliched! She definitely had been. Janelle had long experience of people checking out her tits. Mostly from guys, mind you. Janelle struggled to think of something innocuous to say, before the pause grew too pregnant. To her relief, Christine spoke first. "A real model is the best solution. Not easy for an amateur like me to arrange, though." "But this lady modelled for you!" Janelle said, indicating the clutch of photo's on the benchtop. "Only for a few quick photo's. She wasn't prepared to stand here for hours while I actually worked." "But you'll be able to work from these?" "I've already decided I don't want to. I couldn't tell her so without hurting her feelings but, as soon as I saw what she had, I realised hers were not the boobs I was looking for." This was obviously Janelle's cue to ask, so what kind of boobs ARE you looking for? And she could see it coming from a mile-off that the answer was going to be - Why, one's exactly like yours, of course! "What kind of boobs ARE you looking for?" "For this work, something with more youth. Size has to be there, but shape too. Big, yet perky." In other words, one's exactly like Janelle's. So very obviously perky in the purple boob-tube top she was wearing. There it was again. A quick flicker of the eyes downwards. Chestwards. Janelle was feeling a flush of excitement. A beginning of the adrenaline rush that comes to the quarry as a hunter closes in. Like the feeling you get from knowing there's an intruder in the next room, but they don't yet know that you know they're there, and you're still wondering quite what to do. The classic "fight-or-flight" response to danger. "Janelle, I wonder ... no, forget it!" "What?" "It's too big a favour to ask!" "No favour's too big for someone who just gave me a $3500 artwork!" "No, forget I spoke." "Lemme guess! You think I might have on me, concealed somewhere about my person, a couple of items youthful, big, shapely, and perky?" "Yes, I think you might." "And you'd like to take some photo's of them?" A pause. "That's if you've no objection." "You better first decide if they meet your exacting standards." So saying, Janelle slipped off her white blouse. Next, the boob-tube got pushed down to her waist. Her breasts jumped free and stood resplendent, swooping down her chest like chocolate-brown ski-slopes. She clasped her hands together high above her head and stood there, chest puffed out slightly, like a star of the silver screen. They bobbled and bounced a little. A period of stunned silence ensued. Then, in almost a whisper - "Girl, those are absolutely beautiful!" "Yes," Janelle agreed. "I'm serious! Those are jugs to die for!" "D'ya think they're what you need?" Janelle asked. "Artistically-speaking," she hastened to add. By way of answer the older woman said "Lemme get my camera." It was a small but expensive-looking digital, and in the space of two minutes Christine had snapped about 30 or 40 shots from all angles. Janelle was enjoying the attention and admiration her boobs were bringing. She always got a buzz from showing off her privates, in the right circumstances of course. "Photo's are so second-rate, though. Like I said before, there's no substitute for having a real live model as I work." So saying, Christine stepped forward to gently arrange Janelle's arms in a pose similar to that of the clay statue. Such close proximity to this half-naked black goddess was making her head swim. "It's so much easier to work from a 3-D object." She was struggling to keep her voice level. "Something I can turn ..." So saying, she placed her hands on Janelle's bare upper arms and turned her around through ninety degrees. "Something I can touch ..." Christine's voice had dropped to a throaty whisper. "You gonna want to touch me?" The note of alarm in Janelle's voice made Christine draw back a bit. But she kept up her line of patter. "I operate best that way. Using touch, I can apply what I feel directly to the work." "I never heard of artists doing THAT to their models!" "I can rough out the breast shapes in clay by just looking at you from different angles. But for the final finish it's much more satisfactory if I'm guided by tactile stimuli, rather than just visual." I'll bet it is, Janelle thought. "What would you do, exactly?" "May I demonstrate?" "Okay. For art's sake." And hurry up, for God's sake. Christine slowly but surely brought her left hand up and pressed her warm palm to Janelle's right boob, covering the nipple. "The under-hang area is particularly tricky to capture," she said matter-of-factly, rotating her hand and cupping it to fit that area. In the process, Christine's palm slid over Janelle's hardening nipple in a way that made the younger woman's fanny tingle. She'd always had a special nerve that seemed to run directly from her top bits to down-below, sending out commands that by-passed her brain completely. "To capture these contours just right, I'd alternate between shaping the work and refreshing my mental image of it by doing this." She made her hand move in a gentle rotation that glided her palm over the warm, elastic yet pliant globe it caressed. "Of course, I'd rinse my hands free of clay each time," she added for reassurance, "and warm them up a bit, too." Christine tore her gaze away from the goodies she was gently fondling and looked up, staring deep into Janelle's eyes in a way that was smoking. There was silence for a time. Then she whispered. "One thing I can feel right away, is how hard your nipples are getting!" "They're cold!" Janelle lied. Right now they couldn't have felt hotter, but she wasn't going to give the older lady the satisfaction of knowing it. Not yet. "Are you sure?" Janelle was at an important cross-roads. If she wanted a huge dollop of what promised to be hot lesbian sex, it was right here for the taking. But it would be so vanilla. She could have her fill of vanilla sex any time, any place, and with anyone she wanted, and still be left with this ache gnawing inside her. Right now only Doug really understood what she needed. And appreciated that she did indeed NEED it. Though he didn't yet fully understand what the consequences could be if she didn't get it. Like just lately. It was no decision at all, really. If she couldn't soften up Christine for some of what she, Janelle, really needed, then it was better to run for cover. For now anyway. If she played for time, then maybe later she could get Christine worked up enough, eager enough, that she could dictate some terms. In the meantime ... "Christine, what are you doing?" Christine was rolling a turgid black nipple between thumb and forefinger, that's what. "It's erect. You want this as much as I do ..." "NO I DO NOT!" Christine recoiled, and stepped back with hands half- raised as if to plead innocence. "Janelle, I'm sorry!" "I think I better be leaving." "Janelle, please understand!" "Understand what? That you're molesting me?" "Please, Janelle. Let's take this back a couple of steps." Acting all confused and upset, Janelle retorted "I was sincere! I was willing to be your model! But now, the only steps I'm taking are outta here!" Christine was beginning to look distraught. "Janelle, I'm so sorry! I wouldn't have done anything like this unless I honestly thought ..." Janelle cut her off. "That I'm as bent as you are?" This was too hurtful, too over-the-top. She softened a little. "Christine, I ... I better go. I have to be alone, and try to calm down about this, if we're to remain friends at all. Okay?" "Of course! You got it!" There was obvious relief in her voice. She'd been rebuffed, but maybe hope could still be kept alive. Maybe there'd still be a chance, however slight. Janelle took only a couple of seconds to replace her clothing, and then she turned on her heel toward the way out of Christine's apartment. The other woman scurried after her, to work the deadlock and hold the door open. "Will you call me?" But Janelle strode out without answering further. She left a Christine that was most upset. Upset at having caused offence, over-stepped a mark. Upset at Janelle's rejection of her. Upset at having missed out on something she'd really set her heart upon. It could get so frustrating. Firstly, in being the way she was. And secondly, in trying to deal with women who were still finding themselves. They'd play you along like the horny little clit-teasers they were, then suddenly get cold feet and act all self-righteous about being "hit- upon". Frustrating. Yet so sweetly rewarding on those occasions when everything clicked into place. Meanwhile in the elevator, Janelle was almost quaking with suppressed mirth. What a giggle! What a hoot! Older dyke closes in on youthful sexy innocence, and sexy-innocence takes flight. A classic scenario. A familiar script that she'd just played to perfection. At the end of Act One, what had the characters revealed of the plot so far? Janelle had now established that Christine did indeed want to get into her pants. Next, she had to establish that it could be done HER way. In a way that could relieve her tension. Get rid of the itch plaguing her. She felt young, sexy, and confident. Confident that it'd turn out the way she wanted. Despite her still tender years, she was already maturing into an experienced dominatrix. Though not so experienced yet as to know the full value of honesty. Especially honesty with Doug, to whom she didn't yet feel she owed full disclosure. To know what it truly meant to play with fire.